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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29490099">I wish I were Patria</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingincircles/pseuds/dancingincircles'>dancingincircles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, Lots of Angst, Mild Smut, did i already say angst?, grantaire being a sap for enjolras, i guess, inner thoughts, really mild</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:02:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29490099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingincircles/pseuds/dancingincircles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire just wanted to love him. And to be loved. But, that day, looking at him was enough to make him feel almost alive. (Some of Grantaire's thoughts about his own king Midas, before, during and right after that "goddamn revolution").</p><p>(crossposted on fanfiction.net under the name lecinephile!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), onesided Enjolras/Grantaire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I wish I were Patria</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, here there is my first Enjolras/Grantaire (kind of) story. I wrote this almost three years ago - it was a really hot summer evening and I was on holiday with my mother, bored out of my mind and still crying over Les Miserables' book and movie, so here I am! I posted this on fanfiction.net in 2018 but it wasn't even edited so I decided to clean this up a bit and repost it. Hope you like it :)</p><p>PS. I'm obviously not Victor Hugo. This is my disclaimer 4 u. Go on.<br/>(Also, my mothertongue is Italian and sometimes I really do atrocious mistakes, let me know if that's the case!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Enjolras once said that his only woman was <em>Patria</em>.</p><p>Who the hell was Patria, Grantaire had never known that.</p><p>He imagined her to be a careless, strong and open-minded woman, the one that you stare at when you see her. Not a beautiful one, to be honest. Grantaire liked to think that Enjolras paid attention to little details. Maybe he loved Patria because she had deep and big eyes, or maybe because she was unconventional just like him.</p><p>Grantaire wished more and more times he was Patria. She seemed to be so likeable, so nice, so <em>lovable,</em> that in his heart he knew that his hatred for her wasn't fair.</p><p>And, probably, he would never meet her. Neither him or his friends. Enjolras was the type of guy that spoke only when he had something meaningful to say.</p><p><em>Wish I were him or Patria</em>?, Grantaire asked himself sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't care about starting a revolution, or taking part in one. For him, it was a meaningless illusion that would never work. He was there because of the drinking stuff, just because he liked to share a night with his friends, even though he didn't partecipate that much to their meetings.</p><p>He literally loved the way Enjolras spoke about his beloved fatherland. Grantaire didn't believe in anything but Enjolras. He was his rain of sunshine, who enlightned his cold and boring evenings with the sound of his passionate and angry voice. He could believe in anything, if Enjolras believed in it too. Sometimes his words gave him the conviction that maybe, <em>maybe</em>, that freaking revolution could really work. Grantaire worshipped him. Like he was a beautiful and powerful god with golden skin. Enjolras was his own king Midas. Everything he touched seemed to be better, stronger than before.</p><p>Grantaire believed in him. And everyone knew that. But also everyone knew that Enjolras despised him, and Grantaire himself knew it. He couldn't blame him even if he wanted to. He actually gave his golden god so many reasons to be despised.</p><p>One day, in January, he spent his evening chatting with Marianne, the girl that worked as waitress at the cafè musain, telling her sweet nothings and holding her on his lap. And when she finally left, Enjolras showed to everybody how much he couldn't stand Grantaire. He spat that he couldn't watch him playing with a girl while they were deciding about the fate of their country. His own king Midas, his beloved one, added that he was a meaningless man, a goddamn <em>poeta novus</em>. Grantaire still didn't know what the hell was a <em>poeta novus</em>. He didn't know at all latin, and, besides, he didn't care at all. He just knew that enjolras despised him. He hadn't heard something more painful than that in his short, wicked life.</p><p>It was in that occasion that Enjolras talked for the first time of Patria.</p><p>Grantaire left the cafè in the moment he heard the Enjolras had a woman.</p><p> </p><p>In the cold street he stopped to look around if someone had been following him since the cafè. But no one was there, and he wasn't so much surprised. He felt so hot, even if there was a goddamn cold, even if he had soft snow laying on his dark curls. He saw a prostitute along the street, wearing a red and black dress. Red was the corset, black was the gown. He reached her with urgence, and stared at her, so young and yet so damned already, just like him. She had a pale white skin, dark brown hair, mussed and tousled in the wind, and black, wide eyes. She was so different from the one he loved.</p><p>-It's a cold night, mounsier- she said. Grantaire noticed she had a beautiful, delicate voice.</p><p>-How much do you want?-</p><p>-Well, want do you want me to do?-</p><p>Once they finished discussing about her terms and conditions - <em>hers, </em>because he had no particular need beside forgetting what had happened less than an hour before, the woman held his hand, and he followed her in a little, deserted street.</p><p>And then she was suddenly closer to him, her warm breath caressing his throat, and her mouth was in Grantaire's without even noticing it.</p><p>He pinned her against the wall while she was holding her skirts around her waist, giving him access to her soft skin, slightly reddened by the cold. He took her in that street. She moaned, breathing into his neck, but Grantaire tried to keep her away from his body. He pushed into her once again, making her squirm in his arms. He felt nothing. His mind was aware that their coupling, rough and quick, was just meaningless sex, but he hoped he could feel something else than excitement.</p><p>But he didn't. They both came with a loud moan escaping their mouth and, once again, Grantaire thought it wasn't enough.</p><p> </p><p>He ran away from the girl, terrified by his own thoughts.</p><p>Because he was aware that a warm body in his arms couldn't fill the void that Enjolras' words had left in him.</p><p>And, most of all, because he kept looking at the red corset that the girl was wearing. He knew how much Enjolras loved red</p><p>Red was his favorite color.</p><p>Red, like the blood of angry men.</p><p>But Grantaire had always preferred black.</p><p>Black, like the dark of ages past.</p><p>Enjolras always said that red was the right color to represent France. He was convinced that France, his beloved France, was just like red. Strong, captivating and combative.</p><p>Red, a world about to come.</p><p>Grantaire thought that black was his color because the dark shade remembered him of the bottom of the bottles of wine he loved drinking. Because it was like the nights he spent in the corner of the cafè, watching his own god talking to mere mortals.</p><p>Black, the night ends at last.</p><p>Grantaire knew it was just so useless.</p><p>Patria was the exception. Patria was the one and only that had a chance in Enjolras' heart. And yet, sometimes he had the convinction that in Enjolras' heart there wasn't time for anything but his beloved revolution.</p><p> </p><p>June has come along with Lamarque's death, and so did the revolution.</p><p>The people of France didn't rise. Grantaire knew the truth since that cold January. For once, in his life, he was right on something. And he wished he had been wrong so hard.</p><p>Volunteers had fallen, so did his friends. He saw the dead bodies of Joly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac on the floor. He heard nothing more. Chaos was over, and, he supposed, so was the revolution.</p><p>His friends would never come back. They would never sing aloud with him in drunkness. Joly would never get sick again, Combeferre would never smile to him after his fights with Enjolras, Courfeyrac would never flirt with some witty girl in the cafè.</p><p>He raised his look from the bloody pavement and saw the back of at least six soldiers.</p><p>And, between them, he saw Enjolras' face. Even then he had to be beautiful.</p><p>One of the soldiers said he felt like he was going to shoot a flower.</p><p>A flower. Grantaire never thought of Enjolras in that kind of terms. Enjolras was not a flower. Flowers needed someone else's cure, attention and love. The man he knew was independent, careless, free. He needed anybody but himself.</p><p>But, right then, right there, Grantaire knew that Enjolras needed him. Or, at least, it was Grantaire that needed Enjolras. He wanted to stay beside him, no matter in what situation.</p><p>He stood up, yelling to the soldiers to wait up for him.</p><p>'Long live to the republic!' he screamed, before holding out a hand for Enjolras in front of him.</p><p>'Do you permit it?' he asked.</p><p>Enjolras finally smiled to him.</p><p>"<em>That's it</em>", Grantaire thought "<em>he does not hate me anymore. He forgave me</em>"</p><p>He and Enjolras held each other's hands, and after a second - a beautiful, endless second, in which his mind was flowing with words of giddy contentment - they were already apart. The shots pulled Enjolras against the wall. Grantaire had fallen at his feet.</p><p>He looked to Enjolras beside him. His body was covered in blood, red like his jacket. Like the blood of the angry men that died alongside les Amis. Like the world about to come that would never rise.</p><p>Revolution had fallen. Enjolras had fallen. And Grantaire was glad to be able to leave that wicked world with him.</p><p><em>'I do not wish to be Patria. If I had been Patria I would never be here with you. We are in this together</em>' Grantaire thought before he closed his eyes for the last time.</p>
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